We poison our lives with fear of burglary and shipwreck and ask anyone the house is never burgled and the ship never goes down.

We poison our lives with fear of burglary and shipwreck, and, ask anyone, the house is never burgled, and the ship never goes down.

Love is, above all, the gift of oneself.

However tight I shut my eyes, there will always be a stray dog somewhere in the world who'll stop me being happy.

Believe me; all evil comes from the old. They grow fat on ideas and young men die of them.

The object of art is to give life a shape.

Beauty is one of the rare things that do not lead to doubt of God.

Our entire life, with our fine moral code and our precious freedom, consists ultimately in accepting ourselves as we are.

Each of us has a day .. when he has to accept, finally, the fact that he is a man.

The only immorality is not to do what one has to do when one has to do it.

The object of art is to give life shape.

The price of wisdom is above rubies.

Know how to choose well. Most of life depends thereon. It needs good taste and correct judgment, for which neither intellect nor study suffices.

I love it [a career as an actor] to bits, but it's highly bizarre, especially when you're playing a psychopathic rapist with various diseases.

Our deeds will not cause God to love us more; our sins will not cause God to love us less.

Together, we will protect the sanctity of life, ensuring early next Congress that no federal funds are used for abortion.

There was no one color that could paint Lena Duchannes. She was a red sweater and a blue sky, a gray wind and a silver sparrow, a black curl escaping from behind her ear.

Anyone who's tried to pay a heating bill, fill a prescription, or simply buy groceries knows all too well that the current minimum wage does not cut the mustard.

Once a year I try writing a poem, usually because I've read some poetry that amazed me and I want to do that.

Of course you are. The tributes were necessary to the Games, too. Until they weren't," I say. "And then we were very disposable - right, Plutarch?

Do you have to feel something for it to be real or mean anything? Can you touch your dreams, taste your imagination.